A Welcome Distraction
by Rayne-Jelly
Summary: Hermione and Charlie my friends, Hermione and Charlie. MY take on Hermione's life 10 years in the future, and just how happy she can be.


**Disclaimers:** I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters contained therein. No sueing, please, I'm not worth it, this isn't worth it.

**Author's Notes: **It's het, it's sap, it's something I wrote in a moment of absolute loneliness, when I was trying to defend my opinions on just WHICH Weasley Hermione should end up with. Clearly, not Ron. Enjoy.

**A Welcome Distraction**

_'In such, that is power conduit, magicks, such as crystals, amulets, symbols of faith, and the time honored mirror, certain archaic ritu-' _He snuck up behind me and slid his well calloused hands over my eyes, completely blanketing them, "Guess who?" But I didn't have to. Not because there were wards at every window and door, not because there was an alarm system worthy of an auror's office, but because of who he is. I could smell him the moment he walked through the door, the sweat of the day's work having dried on him, not into an unpleasant smell (or it wouldn't be until he took off his boots), the Chinese food he'd undoubtedly wolfed down for lunch, the faint hint of aftershave and cologne that his shirts always wore.

No, I really didn't have to guess, I knew who he was the moment I laid eyes on him, and tonight when he walked through the door. "I'm trying to read." I'm trying to be flippant and irritated, but the truth is that whenever he's near me I can't be. Even when I'm doing his research, binding rituals using power conduits, how to keep the beasts he works with under control in potentially public situations.

"Not tonight you're not." He said, pulling my chair away from my research table, the sturdy oak that is perpetually covered in dusty volumes that I pour through in my spare time, and even in the time that's not spare. It's what I do for a living after all, research. In two weeks I give my thesis presentation, I argue my point in front of a council, and I'll have my Ph.D. in the practical application of historical magicks. I could teach, I could become a librarian, I could even work for the ministry, never without a secure job simply because the Minister (bumbling idiot that he is) never knows how Voldemort will attack and I've made it my business to recognize the arcane. Yes, I say Voldemort now.

I took the hint. I stood up and turned around, one of his steady arms around my waist. He spends so much time in the sun, I can smell it on him, like fresh grass and earth, but I probably smell like dust and vellum. Not the most appealing combination to anyone outside of my arena. All day I've wanted to weave my fingers in his hair, it's thick and a bit tangled, and plant my lips on his soft very-much-lipbalmed ones and sink into the end of the universe with him. Both of which I do so promptly and with gusto until he finally takes his other hand off my eyes and sends it to join the one at my waist. "What will I be doing then?" I asked him, just a bit breathlessly, but then, he is an incredible kisser and I'm nothing more than a meek little librarian.

He laughed at me for that. I love his laugh, it's temperate and melodious, I love that I have to look up to see into his eyes, I love how one of his hands seems to fit so perfectly in the small of my back. I love that he's warm, and that he feels so hard and soft at the same time, I love that he's pulling my hair out of its bun and trying to straighten out my curls. "First," he said, demonstrating, "you're going to take off your glasses, and let your hair down. Then, you're going to follow me, and we're going to shower, because we both stink."

It was my turn to laugh, giggle really as he led me to the bathroom of our small flat by my mouth. With a precision that was somehow amazingly accurate, and just off enough that none of the garments actually made it into the hamper he divested me of my clothing as he walked, I was still fumbling with his belt buckle. We've been together for nearly five years now, and he still makes me weak in the knees whenever he so much as glances my way. I love my husband, I love him more than the world, more than anything in my universe and beyond, I love him so much I'm afraid it will break me apart one day and nothing will put me back together again. I am also very much in lust with my husband, which is fortunate because I can't count the number of times I've had my ankles behind my ears, or been pushed against the shower wall like this with my legs around his waist.

His lips are on my collarbone and his fingers are buried in my now-wet hair, "I love you Charlie Weasley."

Ron was awkward and furious. It hadn't taken long for our relationship to end, but I had always been his girl. Ron had high ambitions for us, he thought he knew it somewhere in his heart that he and I should be attached at the hip for eternity, he thought that our childish flirtation that always resulted in fighting was the beginning and end of romance for him. I could see it in his eyes when Charlie proposed to me, at Easter Dinner 6 years ago, Ron looked pained and betrayed, he looked like a child with an Oedipus complex; he looked as though I were sacrificing something that never really was in the first place, I was tired of babysitting him. Charlie was everything I'd never thought to hope for and so much more, what I saw in his face that day, hope, adoration, longing, generosity and as clichéd as it may be: true love. I haven't looked back, and Ron will get over it eventually. He never attends Easter when we're there, but at least he showed up for Christmas last year.

How we managed to stumble out of the shower, and how I controlled my fingers from shaking while I miraculously dried my hair instead of sending it up in flames while Charlie slid into clean clothes will forever be a mystery to me. He zipped up my dress, I straightened his tie, I asked where we were going, but he wouldn't tell me so I slid my arms around his waist and we apparated into a safe, ministry regulated landing spot.

The restaurant is a nice one, simple but elegant, the booths are secluded, the menu is selective, and no doubt the kitchens are spotless. Surely not many married couples make out while they're waiting for a table, especially not at a restaurant like this; but as he and I were rather unusual individually, I see no reason why we shouldn't be individual together. He held my hand over the table as we ordered, as we ate, as we chatted idly, the topic of conversation Charlie's research. "Hermione," He said causally, "let's spend tomorrow together... outside." I must have been pale for him to suggest it. He would make an excellent father, he loves children, our nieces and nephews adore their Uncle Charlie and he adores them. It's selfish of me to want to keep him to myself, I know that. It's selfish of me to be so ungenerous, even to our own children, but he hasn't brought it up, and I know I won't.

Charlie takes such excellent care of me, he doesn't let me forget to eat, he peels me out of my office at least once a day, he stands up to me when I 'just need to finish this last paragraph, then I'll come to bed.' Just looking at him makes me want to smile; his eyes are so kind, so trustworthy. "Sure! We'll walk around the park for a bit, sounds fun."

Sometimes I come home to the flat, and he's not there. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night worried that he'll walk out on me. I've been alone for too much of my life, alone in both the company of my friends and the privacy of my old bedroom. But he always comes home on time, and he's always there when I wake up. He's there for my failed cooking experiments, laughing with me and throwing flour in my face, he's there when I get so bogged down in research I forget to shower for four days and my inkwells are completely dry, he's there when he's talking to me and when I'm talking to him, he's there in the walls of our tiny little flat, and he's there whenever I need him. He's – "Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

I know, and I'm a happy woman for it.


End file.
